


The Dire Floods

by EmmasHouse



Series: Stones Unturning [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Assassination Plot(s), BAMF Gwen (Merlin), BAMF Merlin (Merlin), Dark Merlin (Merlin), F/M, Gen, Good Morgana (Merlin), Hurt Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), M/M, POV Gwen (Merlin), POV Morgana (Merlin), graphic depictions of injuries, heavy gwen and arthur friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:07:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23933572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmasHouse/pseuds/EmmasHouse
Summary: After one of Nimueh's spies betrays her in Camelot, Arthur and a small band of knights set forth for the Isle of the Blessed to avenge the death of his father. Merlin finds himself unable to kill said spy, and his lies begin to grow into something he can't control.(WARNING: graphic descriptions of injuries and era-typical sexism)
Relationships: Gwen/Lancelot (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Stones Unturning [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1720462
Comments: 9
Kudos: 125





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wow! Thanks for all of the attention on the first part of this series! As an update, I just want to say that so far, it's going to have 5 parts, each between 10,000 and 50,000 words. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this part! Kudos and comments are wildly appreciated, thanks for reading! (:

**One month later...**

“Arthur you can’t do these things now that you’re King.” Morgana, always the loyal advisor, said as she swatted the back of his head.

“I’ll do whatever I see fit, Morgana. I owe it to my father to avenge his death.” Arthur continued to shove supplies in his bag, not even looking up at her. She had nearly regained full health in the past month of sleeping without the manacles. Her cheeks were once again full of color, the dark circles beneath her eyes vanished. 

“You don’t understand, Arthur. No good can come of this journey-I’ve seen it.”

He looks up at her sharply, neck snapping from the swiftness of the movement. 

“You’ve what? I thought you said the dreams hadn’t returned since you stopped wearing the manacles.”

“I dreamt of your quest last night.” She said softly, coming to sit beside him. “You will be captured and-and they’ll do horrible things to you.” She shudders at the memory. 

The first thing Arthur realized in a month of being King, was that every single day held a crossroads. Yesterday was the decision to travel to the Isle of the Blessed with a small group of knights, to hunt down the sorceress Nimueh, who had been using one of the kitchen maids as a spy. He would leave Lancelot behind, to look after Morgana while she led the court in his absence. 

Today, and he really should have expected it, the crossroads were Morgana herself. Does he accept her dreams as prophecy just because she has magic? The significance of such an act is immeasurable. If he accepts her magic as warning, as a tool to assist his rule, then surely he must lift the ban on magic. Otherwise it would be hypocritical. 

That being said, Arthur knows that he will never have the heart to kill another sorcerer, for he knows he will see Morgana’s eyes in their faces.

But still, magic can’t be trusted, no matter how accurate Morgana’s premonitions have been. It has brought nothing but pain to the both of them. Arthur has now lost both parents to its evils, and Morgana’s sanity will always be at risk. 

“Nothing is set stone.” He says quietly, unable to meet her eyes. Too ashamed to meet her gaze. “They are just dreams, Morgana.”

“You bastard.” She whispers, already storming to the door before Arthur can even feel the weight of what he has said. “You’re going to be just like him, aren’t you?”

“I am leaving tonight.” He says, letting the kingly facade drop for a moment. “Are those really going to be your last words to me?”

Morgana’s face falls, contorting with that characteristic battle between affection and disinterest. 

“You are nothing like him.” She says quietly. “Which is why I could not bear to lose you.”

“I will be home in one piece.” He says. “And all will be well.”

The next day, Arthur, Gwen, and four knights set out for the Isle of the Blessed. That night, Morgana dreams of rain. 

༺═──────────────═༻

**Three days later...**

Merlin cannot muster the humanity to feel remorse as his dagger pierces Walyn’s heart. His mind is too foggy with images of swords and growing rumors to pay attention to the life slowly draining out of the man in front of him. He doesn’t really remember what Walyn did to earn Nimueh’s distrust, but it was enough to send her most efficient assassin after him. 

At some point, she had stopped sending Alvarr after targets entirely. “Emrys gets the job done faster,” is all she would say when the other sorcerer tried to reclaim his position. 

Merlin did have to admit, though, that the shift from apprentice to assassin was gradual enough that he hardly noticed it. Slowly, Nimueh decreased the time devoted to their lessons and set him on more and more assignments until he was never in one place long enough to study. 

Suddenly, Merlin develops a reputation--one based on actions rather than prophecy. Mortal men come to know the name ‘Emrys’ as a shadow, a killer neither seen nor heard. Men in taverns whisper about victims stabbed clean through the heart, with no signs of struggle nor any other wounds. They grow particularly fond of the phrase, “turns men into deer,” to describe the precision of Emrys’ kills. 

The funniest part of it all is that they see Merlin’s victims and completely ignore the logic. They see a man stabbed through the heart and assume it was done out of sadism as opposed to mercy. Perhaps that is more because it is difficult to fathom an assassin doing anything out of mercy. Mercy is indicative of more humanity than an assassin should possess, after all. 

After he leaves Walyn’s body, where it crumpled over onto his kitchen floor, Merlin sets out for Camelot. He is sent after a servant, a young girl named Alina who was meant to be a spy for Nimueh. Merlin had never met her, thankfully, because she had cracked the minute they threw her in the dungeons. 

Transport spells were largely unreliable and notoriously tricky, but there was no way Merlin could envision himself making the weeklong trek to Camelot. There are reasons for this of course. Things like money and food and energy. Only the real reason Merlin cannot bear to travel alone any longer. 

As he walks through the lower town, not even bothering with a cloak or a hood, Merlin can’t help but notice the change. In just a month of King Arthur’s reign, the streets are cleaner, and there are more people than the last time Merlin came. 

There is a band playing outside of the tavern and there are children dancing on their father’s shoes. It is so strangely profound and joyful that it rips at something in Merlin’s chest. He hurries to the dungeon, trying to understand what it was about Arthur Pendragon that inspired such hope, such joy. Merlin struggled to identify what exactly it was that made Arthur different from his father. 

The question continues to gnaw at his brain even as he knocks the two guards out and finds Alina’s cell. Upsettingly, she looks even younger than Merlin would have thought a sixteen year old girl would. Her cheeks are tear-stained, hair matted against the side of her face. Her green eyes met his, full of something between shock and fear. 

“‘Suppose you already know who I am then.” He whispers, waving a hand to unlock the cell’s door. 

“There’s not a druid in the world who wouldn’t know you on sight.” She says confidently even as she backs up against the wall of the cell. 

“You’d be surprised.” Merlin comments, pushing the gate open with a calloused hand. The iron squeaks unpleasantly and Alina curls into herself where she lays on the ground. 

“Please don’t do this.” She whispers frantically. “King Arthur is on the throne--you should be-”

“I don’t care about King Arthur!” He snaps, stalking forward. He has grown to hate these conversations, no longer feeling like he was exercising his power. Now he feels as sadistic as Morgause, talking to the targets, making them feel as though they have a chance. “Your prophecies have it wrong. I don’t see how any druid could see the Once and Future King in a man who has killed so many of you.”

“If you’d met him, you would feel differently, Emrys. He is not what Nimueh says he is, he’s so much-” Merlin cuts her off with a wave of his hand, immobilising her. He can’t bear to hear another word about King Arthur, not when his world is already so precariously balanced. He has no reason to trust Arthur, he never has. At least Nimueh has shown him how to accept his magic, how to defend himself. 

“Arthur Pendragon is not my king. You would all do good to learn that.”

He has the dagger in his hand, pointed right at her heart. He grunts sharply as the blade is suddenly knocked from his hand by a sword. 

“Unhand the prisoner!” The knight shouts, and Merlin can’t help but smile, seeing the familiar face. 

“Lancelot!” He says with a grin and an outstretched hand. “You’re a knight!”

“Why are you here Emrys?” He asks through grit teeth, replacing his sword in its sheath.

“Duty calls. Apparently, you guys have a traitor on your hands.” He gestures to where Alina stood, wide-eyed and rigid. 

“Let me assure you then, that your services are not required. Let her go.” Lancelot orders, and Merlin does have to admire how he doesn’t make a move for his sword, already knowing it is no match. 

“I’m afraid I can’t.” He makes a lunge to stab the girl when he’s tackled from the back. 

He releases his hold on Alina and she begins gasping for breath. Lancelot grabs her by the shoulders while the other knight hauls Merlin to his feet. Her eyes meet his, and Merlin is all too painfully reminded that he is barely two years older than her. Lancelot is still young, younger than the other knight, but has the face of a man. There is stubble at his jaw and a determined set to his face that Merlin has yet to find for himself. Somehow it is more troubling that it is Alina, frail and full-cheeked, that Merlin has been sent to kill. 

“You truly don’t believe he is the King of legend?” She asks, struggling against Lancelot’s hold. 

“I can’t.” Merlin says and he thinks it is rather clever. He could not bring himself to say for sure either way. If King Arthur is meant to be _his_ king, then one thing was certain--Merlin would be in grave danger. Following Arthur, _helping_ Arthur would turn Nimueh’s war against the Pendragons into a war against prophecy, a war against Emrys. “He can’t be.”

“Very well.” Alina says, before closing her eyes and shouting, “Wáce ierlic!”

In an instant, the knight holding Merlin is thrown against the gate and Merlin is running. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, the quest was doomed from the start.

Merlin hears Lancelot shouting, and the other knight charging after him. He hides in alcove until they both run past him, and he can safely make his way to Kilgharrah’s cavern. 

He’s out of breath by the time he skitters to a halt at the cliff. The dragon is nowhere in sight and Merlin is left with no cryptic to advise him. This isn’t the first time he has failed to do as Nimueh asked, but Alina is the first person he has failed to kill. 

He can’t say how long he sits there, on the cliffs edge, but eventually, there is the beating of wings and Kilgharrah appears. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure today, young Merlin?” He asks, curling up on the heap of boulders in the cavern’s center. 

“I don’t know.” Merlin confesses. “I failed today. For the first time in...ever.”

“I don’t understand why you continue to work with the sorceress.” Kilgharrah responds, voice void of all emotion. 

“Well, she was right about the wraith. I didn’t need to go through all that trouble in the first place. I should have trusted her.”

“What have you done with Excalibur then?” 

“I embedded it in a stone in the Valley of Fallen Kings.”

“I made you the sword, young warlock.”

“I know.” Merlin grumbles. It’s a good thing that it had yet to be wielded, right?

“Perhaps it is time for you to return the favor.” His voice lilts at the end of the statement, with a sing-song quality that makes no sense for such raspiness. 

“You said it would come with a price.” Merlin suddenly remembers their first conversation, full of snap judgements and prophecies about promises. “I didn’t realize that Excalibur was the great favor.”

“The creation of such a weapon is a burden greater than you will ever know.”

“Yes because the fate of Albion is so much less important than a sword.”

“You have not seen what I have seen. If you had, you wouldn’t have asked such a favor.” There was a gravity in the dragon’s voice when he said this, and a look in his eyes that made Merlin shiver. 

“What’s your price then?” 

“You will use the sword to slash my chains.” 

Merlin felt something seize up inside him. The dragon had said to place the sword where no one could wield it, so he did. He said that Merlin wasn’t worthy to wield it, so he didn’t. And yet, now, Kilgharrah was telling him to use it for his own personal gain?

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean you ‘can’t?’”

“I just can’t.” Merlin refused to give Kilgharrah the satisfaction of the sword itself not thinking he was worthy enough, despite the fact that it was his magic that put it there. That was a secret he would take to the grave. 

“If you are unable to keep promises, young warlock-”

“I did as you asked. I didn’t let anyone but Arthur wield the sword. I hid it. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“You’ve asked me to create a weapon that could be used to kill me!” The dragon wailed. “There’s a reason no such weapons exist anymore! They were used to slaughter my kind and scorch the Old Religion from the world. And yet you ask me to forge a sword capable of causing my demise for what? For you to change your loyalties at the last minute?”

“My loyalty has always been with Nimueh.”

“Has it, Merlin?”

Kilgharrah flies off then, leaving Merlin on the cliff’s edge, feeling more alone and confused than he’d ever been. 

He walks back to the dungeons, to find Alina gone. He wonders if Lancelot killed her, if King Arthur did himself. He decides that that is the narrative he will spin for Nimueh. He went to Camelot to find her dead, with the King standing over her corpse. 

Or perhaps there is a simpler narrative. Merlin never actually had to make it to Camelot in his story. 

The transport spells were still far too hit and miss for him to use consistently. Merlin had allowed himself an entire fortnight to kill her, since he had to come all the way from Essetir. Theoretically, there could be rains. There could be a flood, and it could have been impossible to even make it to Camelot in the first place. 

There are no spells for these things, of course. At least not ones that survived the Great Purge. In the end, instinct has always been Merlin’s only friend, even now. 

He takes a deep breath, and rains begin to fall. 

༺═──────────────═༻

“Stay with me, Arthur!” Gwen’s shouting, and her hand collides with his cheek. Leon hovers at her left, eyeing the perimeter. They took the bandit down easily enough, with Sir Gaheris tackling him the minute the knife left his hand. It was too late to stop it from burying itself in Artur’s side. All the while they are pelted by heavy rains, the likes of which Gwen has never seen. 

“Damnit!” She shouts as his eyes roll back. The tunic wrapped around his ribs is soaked with blood and rainwater. That damn rain that won’t ease up for even a second, not long enough for them to load up the horses, make a shelter, or stop Arthur from bleeding out. 

“Is there anything I can do?” Leon asks, but keeps hovering at her shoulder--waiting, watching as she struggles to apply her basic first aid knowledge to a battle wound. 

“Leave us!” She shouts, running a hand through her sopping wet hair. “I can’t focus when you’re like this!” 

“Guinevere…” He mutters, just under his breath so that only she can hear. “In the kindest way possible, don’t forget your place.”

“If you don’t mind,  _ Sir  _ Leon,” She replies, levelling his gaze with defiance (despite how much his words hurt). “Call me Gwen.”

He leaves with that, off to join the other knights in scoping out the route back to Camelot with the least flooding. Not that Arthur will want to return to Camelot when he rouses. They are only hoping he stays unconscious long enough for them to begin the journey without kingly intervention.

The rain seems to make everything louder, despite its quiet sound blending into the background. It is the rain, it is Arthur, and it is the impending sense of doom that has loomed over Camelot for the past month. 

King Uther was killed and now there is a twenty-one year old boy on the throne. Arthur was the Crown Prince for exactly two days before he became King. His court is in shambles, as Uther’s advisors grapple with the young king for control of the kingdom. There are a total of four commoners serving as knights, and Morgana is the first woman who hasn’t been Queen to serve as Chief Royal Advisor. 

Then, they had discovered Alina, a girl little younger than Gwen herself. A girl who had been conned into betraying her kingdom by an evil sorceress. The same evil sorceress who sent the Black Knight after Uther. 

They all knew this mission was a fool’s errand or a death trap, or both. But a grieving King was one to be reckoned with, especially if that King was Arthur. 

Gwen suspected that he was only so intent on avenging his father’s death because he felt like he should, like it was the right thing to do. Before the advent of Alina, Arthur seemed...well, not content, but okay with accepting that the Black Knight had killed his father. 

“Gwen, how is he?” Gaheris asks hobbles into the clearing, the haphazard tourniquet around his leg completely stained scarlet. 

“He’s just passed out.” She sighs, feeling hopeless and a little sick. Arthur had brought her along on the condition that she would help to tend to any injuries,  _ should they arise.  _ Yet here she was, with bleeding King in her lap and all she could do was wrap ripped up pieces of a tunic around him. 

“He’ll be okay.” He stumbled, slipping through a puddle, in his efforts to sit beside her. “He always is.”

“Forgive me if this is treason, Sir, but he’s an idiot.” Gwen bit her lip as she stared down at Arthur. She can’t help but wish Lancelot was there to deal with everything, like he always did. And maybe she got sick of being his damsel in distress, but it didn’t change the fact that Gwen still didn’t know what to do when things went wrong. She floundered and freaked out, wishing helplessly that she had an ounce of power to defend herself, or her King, with. 

“He  _ is  _ an idiot, but only in the way that we all are when we’re young.”

“I’m younger than him!”

“I know, I know.” Gaheris winced slightly as he shifted his leg, but flashed her a sympathetic smile. “But you are only the blacksmith’s daughter, and he is King. Your immaturities will never hold the weight of his.”

Morgana was the light of Gwen’s life, truly. She was a friend like no other, and single handedly kept Gwen alive during the harsher winters. But when she became Morgana’s maidservant, Gwen had ceased to be the blacksmith’s daughter. She was made cleaner, more delicate and feminine. The blacksmith’s daughter, as the knights knew her from years of visiting her father for weapons, was more competent. She was less fragile. Men would ask the blacksmith’s daughter to sharpen their blades and remove dents from their shields. Maidservant to the King’s ward held more status on paper, but Gwen had only felt her regard fall in the eyes of men. 

“I’m worried about him. The knife went in pretty deep.” 

“We are all worried about him. But Arthur has suffered much worse in his years.” Gaheris’ quiet wisdom, his fatherly reassurance, makes Gwen long for her brother in a way she hadn't in years. She misses Elyan’s wise recklessness, his sweet humor and affectionate rough housing. She longs for the family of the knights, really. She despises how easily Lancelot has stumbled into such community, such loyal friendships and eternal bonds.

Women don’t get that. If a woman wants to feel the comfort of family, she is expected to have children. She is expected to have children and forfeit work and eat, live, and breathe for  _ family _ . 

Arthur’s eyes flutter open slightly, blinking sharply as they are hit with fat rain drops. He makes no move to speak, but fingers come up to his bandages, and come away scarlet as if the wound were still as fresh as it was when it happened. 

When the knights return, with news that all of the major routes to Camelot are too flooded for the horses to safely trek, Arthur doesn’t speak. Silently, he closes his eyes and feigns unconsciousness. The painted dejection on his face says it all, and Gwen tells the knights he hasn’t stirred a bit. 


	3. Chapter 3

“Emrys, you can’t make it rain every time there’s a minor inconvenience.” 

He stands in the doorway of what used to be the grand hall, hair dripping wet and hanging in his eyes. His coat, his beautiful black suede coat Morgause gifted him, equally soaked. 

Nimueh picks at her nails, not even bothering to look up at him. Her emerald gown hangs off her shoulders, with embroidered gold organza loosely draped over her arms. _It should be a crime_ , Merlin thinks, _to look so innocent and idle while there are men killing for you._

“I didn’t-”

“Don’t bother.” She cuts him off. “The air reeks of your magic.”

Merlin decides to try a different tactic, conjuring up a story easily enough. In two years of being everything from a student to an assassin to a traitor to a loyal servant again, he has developed the right tongue for lying. 

“I meant to summon a lighter drizzle, just long enough to distract the outer guards on patrol but then-well, I got carried away.” He looks down between his feet, the thoroughly chewed up black boots he’s had longer than he’s known Nimueh. Morgause laughs. 

“Only you, Emrys.”

This change too is rather subtle. At some point he has stopped being ‘Merlin’ in their eyes and became ‘Emrys’ entirely. He’s no longer the clumsy teenager who had yet to learn a single spell. Now, they say his name like he _is_ the sorcerer of legend, like he’s a man. 

Part of Merlin thinks they get joy out of saying his name like he’s a servant though. Nimueh loves to think that the warlock of legend is her own personal assassin, Morgause thinks of him more as a little brother, which is almost worse. 

“So the druid girl lives?” Nimueh sighs, finally meeting Merlin’s eyes. 

“For now, she does.” _Don’t apologize, don’t apologize._ “I’m sorry.”

_Damnit._

“I’ll have Alvarr do it as soon as your tantrum works itself out.”

That is the worst thing she could have possibly said, but Merlin bears it with dignity. There will be another assignment, perhaps not a druid, and he will be redeemed. He hopes to never kill a druid ever again, because they all have such faith in him. Alina, quite possibly using her last breath to save him because she has been brought up to believe he will save them from persecution. 

Nimueh waves him in to take a seat. 

“Tell me Emrys, in your time out, have you heard of this so-called Sword in Stone?”

Merlin’s heart stops beating before he’s even taken his seat at her left. Did she know? How could she know? He’d been so careful…

“I don’t believe I have.”

“Really?” She smirks and Merlin knows that his life as he knows it is about to end. “It’s all the men are talking about. Care to fill him, dear?”

“Some idiot sorcerer went and shoved a blade in a boulder out in the Valley.” She sighs, expression irritated. “The fae spread a rumor that only ‘the worthiest of men’ can draw it.”

“What’s wrong with that?” He asks, feigning a playful smile. “Seems like fodder for friendly competition.”

“What’s _wrong_ with it is that no spell can free it!” She exclaims, uncharacteristically losing her temper. 

“Sounds like someone isn’t ‘worthy enough.’” Merlin jokes, instantly regretting it as her face falls.

“Why does it matter?” He asks gently, trying to rationalize her reaction.

“She wants to be the golden knight to wield the special sword and be the hero of men.” Nimueh mocks, as she picks up a lock of Morgause’s hair and winds it around her finger. The younger girl only grimaces in response. 

“But women can’t be knights.” He flounders, remembering all too well what it feels like to be mocked by the High Priestess. 

“In _men’s_ kingdoms.” Morgause whispers, staring the knife in her hands as she carves into the wooden table. “In _our_ kingdom I can be whatever I want to.”

“But why would you want to be a knight? And why is that sword so special?”

“Be _cause_ Emrys, not all of our destinies are written. Some of us have to fight for importance.”

༺═──────────────═༻

**One week later..**

Sir Lamorak comes running back to their camp honest to God weeping. The words do not spill from his mouth easily and it takes what feels like hours to get the whole story. The whole affair boils down to his last four words, which tear through Gwen’s heart painfully.

“Sir Gaheris is dead.”

His leg was healing well-Gwen’s only comfort as she struggled to sort out Arthur’s wound. But then there was that blasted need to get water from the river, which was dangerously overflown from the rains. He slipped, on his bad leg, and drowned before Sir Lamorak could make sense of what had happened. 

“What should we do?” Leon asks, laying a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. The King is pale and weak, and the wound in his side is painted in shades of yellow and purple. 

“We have to search for his body.” Arthur makes a move to get up, but Leon forces him back down. 

“There’s no point, Sire. He is gone with the current.”

“Remember your place, Sir Leon.” Arthur growls, forcing himself to his feet. He sways a little once he’s up, and Gwen is worried she’ll have to catch him. 

“He is a knight of Camelot! He served with honor and valor and-and-and we look after our dead.” Arthur is already sitting back down by the time he utters the word ‘dead’ and there is such intense pain on his face that pain twists in Gwen’s chest. 

“Not all soldiers get buried.” Sir Bors mutters and they all remember the story of his father-- taken prisoner by Bayard and tortured to death. They say there wasn’t much of a body left to bury. 

“His sword is here.” Lamorak offers weakly, but Arthur summons up a smile. 

“Then we shall bury that tonight. Gwen,” He turns to face her, expression somber but a silent plea in his eyes, “-could you?”

“Yes.” And she leaves to gather stones before the sun is fully set. She is grateful for something to do, for something she knows how to do. Gwen is not the person who can treat wounds using only what lies in her immediate environment. But to sharpen, straighten, and polish a sword? She can do that, even without her father’s workshop tools. Ideally, she could heat the blade with the open fire, but the rains left no chance of that. Instead, she would have to straighten the blade with a larger stone, and do her best to find a stone that could act as both a polisher and sharpening tool. 

When she returns to the camp at nightfall, she cleans Arthur’s wound with river water and Leon offers up more strips of his tunic as bandages, though Gwen doubts how much cleaner they are from the blood stained ones. Everything is equally filthy and drenched, as the rains haven’t seemed to lighten up in the slightest. She doesn’t know if they, if Arthur, can last another week like this. She prays that no one else will suffer the fate of Gaheris, God rest his soul. 

She straightens and sharpens the blade, and gives her best attempt at a polish. Somewhat bashfully, the four other men all ask if she could do the same for their swords. By the end of it all, they are all watching silently as a woman takes better care of their weapons than they even know how to. She hopes it makes up for her absolute ineptitude with medicine. 

They bury Gaheris’ sword at the base of an oak tree, one of the official signias of Camelot. It seems poetically fitting. 

“Sir Gaheris was one of the noblest men I have ever known. He fought tirelessly at Camelot’s side during the Mercian war, and continued to fight against all of her enemies, known or unknown. He...”

Arthur begins the speech rather dignified, with the same straight posture and clipped tone he used to deliver his father’s eulogy. But then he is looking at the faces around him. At Leon, only a few years older than himself. At Lamorak, the baker’s son with a knack for archery. At Bors, who carries a legacy almost as heavy as his own. And finally, at Gwen, who is out of place no matter where she is. Who will always walk the fine line between classes, between genders, and would do anything for him and Morgana. Arthur’s stoic expression melts.

“When Leon and I were still training and I was only twelve years old-” He shakes in a deep breath. “Sir Gaheris stayed behind from the third campaign. He said it wasn’t right that the squires should be abandoned completely for a purely pecuniary war. He spent weeks training us not in weapons, but in strategy.”

There were tears in Leon’s eyes when Gwen looked over at him, and his hand is clasped tightly on Arthur’s shoulders. 

“Of all my father’s men, he was the only one who I felt really understood how young we were. He knew that we were scared. Our fathers, our teachers were out fighting a war we couldn’t understand but feared we would be dragged into. He trained us in the art of wisdom, of resilience, but most importantly, he made us feel as though we were not left behind. 

“Even now, I stand before not as a squire, a knight, or even Prince. I don’t know what kind of King I will be, but I know that Sir Gaheris was the man I will always strive to be. I will strive to protect you, to serve you, with his courage, his compassion, and his loyalty. God rest his soul.”

“God rest his soul.” They all mumble back, each undoubtedly feeling something stirring in their chests. There is something undefinable Arthur, for all his reckless arrogance. There is an eloquence--a natural grace and genuine charisma that the rest of them could only dream of possessing a mere ounce of. 

Arthur refuses to sleep under their makeshift shelter, composed of capes strung across branches. Instead, he curls up at the foot of the oak tree, shivering himself to sleep. It is times like these when she wonders how such a fool, such a stupidly noble-hearted fool, could truly be King. 


	4. Chapter 4

Merlin doesn’t know how to stop the rain. He has tried spells, tried willing it to stop, even praying to the Goddess that it might end, yet nothing works. The clouds continue to gather and pelt the lands with heavy rains. 

He feels sick, and can barely bring himself to leave his room. He knows that people are dying-that people have died from his incompetence. There men, children drowned and starved from this never-ending storm. 

Morgause “kindly” asks him once a day to cut it out, telling him that it’s not funny anymore and she has training to do, thank you very much. Nimueh seems to understand that he can’t make it stop, but proceeds to mock him for it at every possible opportunity. 

Eventually he breaks down and asks, no,  _ begs  _ her to make them stop. She says she doesn’t know how. 

“Magic hasn’t been used like this before. No one can stop it but you, Emrys. The rest of us are powerless against it.”

She sounds almost bitter about it, and Merlin wonders if she’s tried, how hard she’s tried. 

“I mean--it’s just rain, isn’t it?” He asks weakly. 

“It is rain of a gravity none of us have seen. There are floods along all the trade routes. Alvarr is stranded halfway between Camelot and Essetir. Morgause is hellbent on catching illness from playing with that stupid sword. And I can’t get a clear scry on where King Arthur _ is  _ since you’ve drenched the whole country and everywhere looks the same. And frankly  _ Merlin _ , it doesn’t seem like you’ve done anything at all to stop it.”

She’s not angry, at least not in a loud way. No, instead Nimueh speaks to him in those short, cold tones she reserves for talking about the Pendragons. It’s worse than yelling, really. 

“Don’t tell me I haven’t tried! I’ve done everything I could think of and nothing works!”

“You’re such a child, Merlin.” She says, running her hand along Morgause’s carvings in the long wooden table. “Sometimes I think it was a mistake for the Goddess to give such power to someone so young. But I think I understand it now. You’re not a child because of your age, Emrys. You’re a child because you can’t do anything without help.”

Merlin wants more than anything to bite back with ‘ _ You have no idea all that I’ve done on my own!’  _ but knows that it would be suicide. Nimueh can never know of Excalibur, and his plots of treason. In her eyes, he will always be a fool, unworthy of the power he was given. 

“What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t care about the rain. I don’t care who dies in the floods. I want that blasted sword split from the rock so Morgause can be useful again. I want the traitor Alina dead and I want-I need to be the one to kill Arthur Pendragon. And somehow, the rest of the world can’t seem to function as long as there are clouds in the sky.”

“I’ll fix it.” Merlin promises, already fearing the glints of madness in the sorceress’ eye. 

“Somehow, Emrys, I doubt you will.”

༺═──────────────═༻

**Three days later...**

“You forget your-your place, Gui...ne...vere.” Arthur chokes out in between coughs. 

“My lord,” Gwen mumbles, hands on his chest in an attempt to steady him while he thrashes against Leon’s hold. “I need to change the bandage.”

“Don’t come near me!” His wide eyes fix on Sir Lamorak, who is holding his feet down. “Where’s Lance--where’s Lancelot?”  
“He is back home with Morgana.” She motions with her hands for Bors to help hold the King down. With three men restraining him, Arthur eventually stops thrashing and Gwen is able to peel back the bandages. 

“I need Lancelot.” 

The wound is ringed in deep purples, almost black, and yellowing skin at the edges. Gwen feels bile rising in her throat as she picks away at pieces of cloth that have gotten stuck with blood. She holds one hand above the wound, in a futile attempt to shield it from the rain. There is nothing she can do but wrap a new band of linen around his ribs. 

“We need to get back to Camelot.” Leon says quietly. 

“Guinevere, where is Lancelot?” Arthur asks again. 

“In Camelot.” She whispers. Dear God how they all need Lancelot here now. She longs for nothing more than his quiet embrace, firm and full of affection. 

“You should be with him.”

“I know.”

“What of Morgana?” He asks and Gwen watches with pity as parts of struggle against this fit of madness, of fever induced delirium. 

“In Camelot.”

“Send for the King.” He mutters, falling back against Leon’s chest. “I need to speak with him immediately.”

She rests a hand against Arthur’s forehead, feeling how hot it is even in the cold of the rain. Suddenly his eyes flicker open again, shining blue in the sunlight.

༺═──────────────═༻

Merlin can’t say for sure why he goes to the sword again. Perhaps, there was a part of him that hoped in defying Nimueh’s orders to return to Camelot and kill Alina he would become a better person. He hoped that the sword would recognize it. Maybe he goes because in a way, Nimueh asked for it. 

“Alright. Let’s give it a go.” He says and spits on his hands, rubbing them together just like he and Will would do before racing to the top of the old oak tree. He lays a hand on either side of the hilt and pulls. 

Nothing. It doesn’t budge even slightly. 

Perhaps that could be explained by the rain loosening his grip. He tried again, holding the hilt even tighter. 

Again, nothing. 

“Damnit!” He shouts at no one in particular. Perhaps it was at the fae and nature spirits, watching him once again, only teasing him now.

It wasn’t their voices in his head, though. As he grabbed the sword again, it was Kilgharrah’s and Nimueh’s voices filling his head. Talking about destiny and worth, things that Merlin would never have. Selflessness and good-hearts, golden haired kings and druid girls laying down their lives. 

He wonders when it will all be too much. It has been a year since Merlin has seen his mother. It has been two years since he last felt like he was young. Amid it all, between prophecies and assassinations and never-ending rains, Merlin has grown up somehow. He has grown up into something that isn’t quite a man, but far beyond a boy. 

Not a man, because men don’t break down crying in cursed valleys, after failing to draw a sword he placed in a boulder. Men don’t cower away from women, don’t pine after weaker lives, don’t fear their destiny. Men are not afraid of kings, of Princes, of boys being drowned in water. And yet Merlin has seen it all, faced it all while trembling. 

The clouds begin to part as he falls to his knees, weeping like the child everyone says he is. He feels weak, exhausted from blocking out the sun for all this time, and even weaker from pulling apart the clouds, drawing back all of the rain and darkness from the world. 

He passes out, failing to hear the footsteps of men, the clatter of horse hooves against the ground. He will not hear their voices until he is long gone from the valley, until destiny calls on him in one form or another. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlin is captured for unknown (but intriguing) reasons, Gwen tries to persuade Lancelot into being slightly less sexist than everyone else, the King of Camelot is dying and Morgana is at a crossroads.

“Gaius, surely you can’t be serious?” Morgana’s voice was broken and detached as she gazed down at her brother. “You don’t mean this is fatal?”

“My lady, it is badly infected. The knights weren’t able to identify it as so and it went untreated for weeks.” Arthur tried to follow the conversation, to keep his eyes open and trained on Morgana. He’s able to make out only a few words-nothing he didn’t already know. Not even a day ago he had stumbled through the gates of the citadel, slumped over his horse with a frantic band of knights following closely behind. 

Gaius was right, though. The wound, a jagged puncture in his ribcage from a bandit’s knife, had gone untreated for nearly the entirety of their journey. Nearly a fortnight of Gwen tying cloth around his middle, cleaning the wound with rainwater as Arthur insisted they go forth with their mission. The possibility of Nimueh, the sorceress behind his father’s dwelling in a fortress, compiling armies and sending spies, was too great a threat to risk return. And then the rains had come and ruined everything, keeping them trapped in a clearing, taking Sir Gaheris and throwing sanity to the winds.

“What’s the point in being a physician if you can’t do anything?” Morgana bellowed with such thunder that even a knight would flinch. Only Gaius was no knight, and he was well accustomed to her temper, so vividly reminiscent of Uther’s at times. 

“My Lady, once the wound is infected there is very little a common physician can do.” He snapped, and Arthur didn’t have to see his face to know what kind of scowl was there. “It would take an unusually talented healer to reverse this damage.”

“Don’t-don’t you dare suggest anything of the sort! We will not use...magic on the King of Camelot.” 

Their heads whipped around at the sound of Arthur coughing. He felt as though his lungs had hardened into rock, pulling his chest down to his stomach. He couldn’t really feel the pain in his side anymore, which he knew was a bad sign even if he was grateful for it. 

“There’s no point in arguing.” He whispered in a raspy voice. “I will heal in time.”

“Oh, Arthur….” Gaius pressed a hand against his brow, teeming with warmth. Arthur fell asleep to much desired silence, as the two figures stood over him, fretting as they did when he’d gotten his first head wound in training. He was only eleven then, Morgana only ten, but somehow the bed felt larger now. 

Morgana and Gaius filter out of the room, leaving Arthur to fall back to sleep with thoughts of floods and death weighing heavy on his mind. Absently, he wonders how his father felt about the rain. 

༺═──────────────═༻

Merlin can’t say for sure why Cenred’s men take him. He cannot fathom what was so enticing about an unconscious boy at the foot of the sword in stone. When he wakes up, he is thrown over the back of a horse, hands bound in rope. 

“What?” Is all he can manage to ask, feeling so utterly confused by the situation. His only clue is the signia of Essetir on the knight’s cape, but even that only informs him of his captor’s identity. 

“Keep your mouth shut or I’ll gag you.” His captor responds.

“Who are you?”

“What did I just say?” 

“Why have you taken me?” 

The only response Merlin gets to that is a grimace so full of pity Merlin nearly mistakes it for regret. The knight fixes his gaze back to the path ahead. 

If they truly are going to Essetir, there is only a few hours left of travel. That is plenty of time to escape, especially seeing as that Merlin’s hands are only bound in rope. Theoretically, he could escape any time he wanted. There was nothing stopping him except a mild curiosity. 

There are, of course, a plethora of excellent reasons to kidnap Merlin and he knows this. Only, all of said reasons involve cold iron manacles binding his wrists. The fact that it was mere rope on Merlin’s wrists meant that his magic had nothing to do with his capture. This only further begged the question--what use would King Cenred have for an ordinary boy like him? What reason was there to kidnap him?

The horses navigate the drying floods strategically, and both Merlin and the knight were still soaking wet. But at last, the rains were gone. Merlin had done it, at the cost of a lot of energy and an afternoon, but he had succeeded in doing what Nimueh said he couldn’t.

It wouldn’t be enough to please her, of course, because Merlin had still failed to retrieve the sword. Morgause was still going to be completely useless as long as the possibility of her wielding Excalibur existed. (Despite Merlin's doubts that the sword would only deem one person ‘worthy enough.’)

Either way, he would still have to make up for failing to kill Alina and failing to get the sword. There was a chance that Merlin could use his current situation to an advantage. In theory, as long as he was careful not to reveal his magic and end up in iron, Merlin could figure out exactly what Cenred was planning to do with him and if it had anything to do with the newly crowned King Arthur. 

༺═──────────────═༻

“Gwen, don’t be ridiculous.” Lancelot runs a hand through his hair, eyeing her with something dangerously close to pity. “I’m not going to fight you.”

“Do you know what your sword is made of, Lancelot?”

“This isn’t about-”

“What is your sword made of,  _ Sir Lancelot _ ?”

“I-” Gwen narrowed her eyes at him. “Metal? Steel?”

“Very good. Now tell me, what exactly is steel?” She circled around him in the kitchen. It was unfair to corner him like this, she knew, but there was no better time. 

“I don’t know.” The sounds of her father’s hammer echoed through the room, and Gwen tried not to feel silly, tried to imagine what he would say if he knew what she was trying to do. 

“Steel is the result of molten iron cooling.”

“I don’t see your point.”

“My point is that I built that sword for you!” She hissed. “You came to visit me after you and Arthur were attacked by bandits and asked for a sword! And I heated the metal and beat it into shape while my father was out of town!”

“I know and I appreciate-”

“Why is it that I’m able to make a sword but not good enough to wield it?”

“It’s dangerous!” He quipped back, reaching a hand around her wrist, trying to calm her in her pacing. 

“So is being a blacksmith! My father lost a finger to the forge!”

“You’re not a blacksmith either, Gwen.”

“Fine.” His grip on her tightened as she tried to spin around, to hide the tears welling up in her eyes. “What am I then? A daughter? A maid?”

“You’re the woman I love.”

A part of her would always loathe the sincerity there. She loved him more than anything in the world, but she would never forgive him for that.

“Is that all I am then?”

“No, Gwen-”

“What am I supposed to do, Lancelot? I can’t wait on Morgana forever. I absolutely detest sewing and cooking and everything else wives are supposed to do.”

“I’ve never asked you to do any of that.” There is something else hovering underneath there, a question neither of them have wanted to ask since this whole affair began. 

“But you will, won’t you? You’ll ask me to marry you and forfeit work? To have children, and take care of them until you die in whatever war Arthur gets us into?”

“He’s not going to-”

“He’s hardly three years older than I am. There’s no telling what he’ll do.”

“He’ll do what’s right.”

“Sometimes war  _ is  _ right.” He let go of her wrist, to bring a hand to her head, gently pushing the hair back behind her ears. 

“Is that why you want to learn to fight? You want to go to war?”

“I don’t want to be stuck here while  _ you  _ go to war. I don’t want to be left behind.” Unbidden images of Elyan sneaking through the window came to her mind, followed by what few memories she had of her mother. 

“I just don’t want to see you hurt, my love.” Lancelot’s voice was soft, his touch softer and she had to wonder how someone so gentle could fight as well as he does. 

“Then show me how to defend myself.”

༺═──────────────═༻

Morgana sat in the love seat at Arthur’s bedside, fuming. The King was leaned up against the headboard, with his hair glued to his brow and eyes half-shut. 

“Will you have some soup?”

“Don’t want it. Too hot.”

“Arthur. You have to eat.” They’ve been having this argument for an hour, bickering back and forth like siblings. As Chief Advisor to the King, Morgana has taken over most of his duties, and really didn’t have the time to play nursemaid to him.

“I don’t like you nearly as much as Lancelot.”

“Well I don’t like you as much as Gaius but you don’t hear me rubbing it in.”

“How are the sleeping draughts working?” He asks feebly, not even bothering to feign hurt. If he were in full health, she knows he would have at least tried to.

“They’re working well. A little too well.” She hasn’t dreamt of anything since Arthur was crowned and she began sleeping without the manacles. 

“You haven’t had any dreams?” His voice was hopeful, assuming that that was a good thing. 

Morgana supposed it was a good thing that the dreams have stopped. The manacles wouldn’t actually make them go away, just cause her to wake from them early, convulsing in pain. But perhaps that was better, because she still got to have the dreams then. To have them gone completely, to sleep and wake with nothing happening in between felt like losing a sense. She felt blind, vulnerable in a way that she never had been before. She didn’t know what was happening next, what was happening around her. 

“No, I haven’t.” 

“That’s good.” He whispered, wiping a sleeve across his brow. “I don’t want you to tell me how I die this time.”

_ Water.  _ Her memory, vicious as it is sharp, offers dumbly.  _ You drown in the clearest lake I’ve ever seen.  _ But then, of course he had returned from that ride with Sophia, alone and dripping wet. Then there was the dungeon, and red, angry flesh peeling from his body. That one remained a possibility. Somehow she knew that wouldn’t be what killed him, though. She could feel the life slipping out of him onto the bed as they spoke. She could feel how conversation drained him, with the wound in his side becoming a dark void. 

“I need to go check in with Sir Leon.” She said, unable to watch him dying in front of her, without being able to do anything. “Finish the soup.”

༺═──────────────═༻

**Two days later...**

“Hey!” Merlin shouts, running up to the gate as the knight walks past. “What’s going on? Why am I here?”

He continued walking, stopping just before the iron door at the end of the hall. Merlin watches as he slides a hatch open, trying desperately to see what lies behind it. 

“Not hungry?” The knight laughs, violently shutting the hatch and walking towards the cell. 

“Tick, tock, kid. Tick tock.” This knight says with a click of teeth, smiling sadistically. At least his initial captor had the good grace to appear sorry for Merlin, and whatever grim fate lays ahead of him. 

“What’s back there?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

“What does Cenred want with me?”

“That’s  _ King  _ Cenred to you, boy. And he couldn’t care less about you.”

“Do you think he could at least give me a bigger cell?” Merlin jokes, forcing a smile, even as the knight spat on him. “The dungeons in Camelot are at least twice this size.”

“Keep your mouth shut. Your days are numbered, anyways. Don’t think you’d care to spend your last moments bleeding would you?”

“Oh, I think you’re mistaken, friend. Don’t underestimate my love for a good bloodletting.”

“Stupid kid.” Is all the man mutters before turning up the steps and leaving Merlin, once again, completely alone and completely clueless. 

This plan was turning out to be a lot of work. 

༺═──────────────═༻

The next morning Morgana will burst into Arthur’s chambers, with the full intent of forcing a hearty breakfast down his throat. His bed will be empty, the window open, and Sir Lamorak’s bloody body will be face down on the floor. 

The knights do not find any trace of him after a full day of searching. Morgana is forced to decide whether or not she will tell the people what has become of their King. They know he is ill, because Arthur insisted that his people would not be lied to. He would want her to tell them that he has been kidnapped. 

But Arthur is an idealist who never learned how to separate responsibility from morality. He goes on pointless quests to avenge a father that never loved him, never loved anyone. He tries to sacrifice himself for his knights, men whose lives are worth half of his. He would be an open book, letting the citizens know exactly the circumstance of his disappearance. 

Morgana knew better. She knew that she would say “kidnapped” and they would hear “dead.” And if the King was dead, with no Queen and no heir, someone was going to have to take over. And she knew, no matter how much it hurt, that it wouldn’t be her. Unmarried women of non-royal blood didn’t just get to be Queen because Uther made a promise. Besides, Arthur wasn’t dead. At least not yet. She knew where he was being kept, sort of. She knew what it looked like, even if the dream had been weeks ago. 

They could find him, that much was certain. Even amid flooded trade routes and the knights of Camelot could find their King. And Morgana won’t let them rest until they do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is pretty rushed, but only because I have pretty much all of the next work in the series finished and I am just Excited to publish it. As always, kudos/comments are incredibly appreciated, and thank you so much for reading. Hope everyone is doing well. <3


End file.
